Toying With the Mind
by PrismaticCollaborations
Summary: It has been a week and a half since Natasha Romanoff found Clint Barton barely alive after being kidnapped and tortured, and the Avengers are finally beginning to make sense of it all...or so they think. Meanwhile, Clint's strength is ebbing away, and with it, the walls he has put up around himself.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Clint Barton shot up in bed, sweat beading on his bare chest. He gasped in a long, sharp breath as his mind pulled free of his subconscious, but his eyes remained closed for a short time longer as his quick, heavy breathing slowly calmed. It took a few minutes, but eventually, his nerves had relaxed enough to let him open his eyes and reassure himself that the nightmares were not real. Ever since he had been captured and tortured - or, as his captors called it: 'tested' - he had been tormented every night with dreams so startlingly realistic he sometimes woke from deep sleep only to find himself as tired and exerted as if he had actually been fighting, running or whatever the case might have been. His eyes had dark circles under them, and he felt drained nearly all the time. He did not know how much longer this could go on, but neither was he ready to face the others' questions, which he knew would come as soon as they discovered that he was still affected by what had been done to him at the abandoned warehouse they had found him in.

He had been missing for nearly two months, of which he had little or no memory, save needles, blood and flashing screens displaying what he thought to be his own x-rays, when Natasha had found him strapped to a cot with so many cuts and bruises she had almost thought him dead. He could not remember that, but she had told him all they knew, and he trusted her more than he trusted most people, though he had not liked the worry in her eyes when he had asked where he had been when he had disappeared. They seemed to have expected him to answer that question. He had been back to the warehouse multiple times, trying to revive his memory, but to no avail. The last he could remember was talking with Natasha after the Avenger's dinner together subsequent to defeating Loki and his army.

That was a week before any of them had noticed he was missing, but that did not necessarily mean he had not been gone.

Clint pressed his forehead into his palm and made another futile effort to remember where he had been and what had happened. It had to be in his mind somewhere just beyond reach. Sometimes his nightmares would give him flashes of things that felt so familiar to his memories of the past two months that he could not help but wonder if the dreams that seemed so real were his brain's way of coping with the inability to fill in the blank spaces. The only other solution would be that his memories came back to him in his dreams, and, much as he hated to admit it, his nightmares did seem to match both his memories and his wounds. Already tired of thinking through the tormented two months, he pushed the thoughts back as best he could and forced himself out of bed.

He took a long shower to calm himself down before throwing on a pair of worn jeans and a t-shirt, then went to the fridge of his apartment and got out a beer, taking it with him to the couch. He had just sat down and opened it when there was a knock on his door.

Getting to his feet once more, Clint walked to his door and opened it, leaving the chain to check who it was.

Natasha Romanoff held out a silver-wrapped egg and sausage biscuit and said, "Thought you might like breakfast."

"Yeah, thanks," he said, then unlocked the chain so she could come in.

He knew what she was going to ask before the words left her mouth. It was the same thing she asked every time they had met since he had been back.

"So, how are you?" she inquired, her tone dead serious, as if he could mistake the context of the question.

He could not lie to her to save his life, but he hated seeming so weak. He shrugged, "Same."

He had known Natasha for so long that, where most people saw a blank expression, he could read her eyes like a book, and right now, they were obviously worried. It had been a week and a half and nothing had changed. He guessed she had reason to be concerned for him, but he did not like it at all.

"You look exhausted, didn't you sleep at all?" she questioned, sitting beside him on the couch and observing him as she unwrapped her own breakfast.

"Doesn't help," he stated.

They were both silent until they had finished eating, and then Natasha met his eyes once more and said, "Can't you remember anything yet? Where you were, what you were doing, what they did?"

Clint shook his head and replied, "What I wonder is why the heck would they take me of all people. What's there to 'test'?"

Natasha did not reply, not knowing what to say to that. The question had presented itself to her quite often: why, of any of the Avengers, would someone take Hawkeye? To test? She knew that had to be the main thing eating at Clint was the not knowing. He had been through worse injuries than those he had suffered from when she had found him.

He looked at the floor and Natasha placed a hand on his shoulder, "We'll figure it out, it'll just take time."

"Yeah, well we might not have much time, who knows. I'm sure if it were Tony in my position, we'd know everything by now. He'd have his brain microchipped or something," his tone was somewhere between admiration and defeat.

"I doubt it," Natasha replied.

"Thanks for stopping by," Clint said, glancing over at her and giving the faintest hint of a smile.

She nodded acknowledgingly, and stood to go, "See you around, yeah?"

He nodded and watched her go. They had been friends since they were teenagers and he had never noticed how much he completely trusted her until now. Since he had been back, everything he felt seemed more obviously than before, as if it were closer to the surface. He blamed it on how tired he was, but it still felt strange.

They were all supposed to meet at Stark Tower in an hour, all of the Avengers, as they now called themselves...well, Nick Fury had started it and the others had just gone with it. Clint would have liked nothing better but to fall asleep once more, but he felt the need to get in some target practice since he had not even touched his bow since before...whatever had happened to him. So he went back to his room, picked up his bow and slung his quiver over his shoulder and went to his spare apartment room, which he had turned into a training room. Within minutes, he was so focused on the practice, finding that, though still deadly accurate, the bow felt slightly unused in his calloused hands, that he forgot his exhaustion for a time.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

They were talking about him - indirectly, of course, but it made no difference. Natasha had obviously said something to them between when she had visited him and the Avengers meeting he was sitting in now, because no one would just come out and ask him what they wanted to know. Clint knew how it was, though: whoever had taken him would probably not just drop everything. Nothing was to stop them from torturing every person they met until they got what they wanted. The only other option was that they already had. No one could verify that Clint Barton had been the first person who had been subject to their 'testing', and even if he had, perhaps only one victim was necessary.

At the moment, Tony had a grid full of information hovering over the table they all sat at as he went over their options. Clint knew the others had been waiting on their toes since he had been back for him to remember and give them the details - details he thought he might never have. He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, noticing Natasha, who was in the seat to his left, glance over at him. She had been a bit distracting before all of this, of course, but since she had brought him back from the warehouse where he had been found, it was far more difficult to focus on anything when she was around. She had turned her eyes back to Tony, and he felt a jolt of unexpected jealousy, which was so new it startled him. Since when did he care if she looked at Tony Stark, every woman did, it seemed.

But she did look especially good today, he mused. He involuntarily followed her outline with his eyes, not even realizing as he faded out the meeting. His mind was so drawn to her, and a thousand thoughts raced by him, some just taking in how beautiful she was, others warning him that they were both friends and co-workers, still more telling him that it was just his nearly fried brain trying to deal with exhaustion. He opted to shut the last two up.

"Clint!" Steve Rogers' voice brought him full force back to reality, and his eyes drifted across the table to meet his friend's concerned look. "Are you alright, Man?"

"Yeah," Clint replied simply, mentally berating himself for losing control. Seeing it that way made him wonder even more what his captors had been doing to him for the past two months, he had never lost control before then. He had been able to stifle almost everything, particularly any attraction he might have towards Natasha, but this? With the position he was in, losing control might mean death, and not only his own, in some circumstances. They had no clue what they were up against and this would only make things worse.

He forced everything but the meeting from his mind and tuned his ears to Tony just in time to hear, "To get into his mind."

"Excuse me, what?" Clint asked, sounding more concerned than he had meant to.

"In short, we are going to have to get into your mind, and I'm sure the technology required is within the reach of Stark Industries," Tony said, his voice so full of confidence that Clint could not even consider the possibility that it was wrong. When Tony wanted to do something, he generally did it.

All Clint could do was nod solemnly, though he desperately wanted to shoot down this idea. He hated the thought of having someone in his mind, and the fact that it would be Tony made his distaste for it even stronger.

He felt Natasha's eyes on him as he took in the full effect of Tony's words, and glanced at her. Her green eyes seemed to pierce right through him and he hoped he was not nearly as transparent as he felt that moment. She seemed to be trying to figure out if he was really going to go along with Tony's plan. He was conflicted about that, and he wondered if she could tell. That moment, he wondered how well she really knew him, because, looking back at them, she had always seemed more in tune to him than anyone else. Maybe-

Clint mentally smashed that thought and, with no small effort, broke eye contact with Natasha and said, "Then I'll leave you to that, Tony."

Tony, in response, gave the tight smile that basically meant he thought himself a genius.

"Alright, if that's all, you're free to go," Nick Fury said, as Tony closed off the extra tech.

Clint stood and was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion, though he kept it hidden well. He felt as if he had not slept in weeks, but guessed whatever sleep he got in the foreseeable future would not help him much.

He had just recovered when Natasha strode over and stood in his line of vision, forcing him to meet her eyes. Everyone else had left the room by that time, so she seemed to find it alright to speak plainly to him, "You don't want Tony to do it, do you."

It was more of a statement than a question. Apparently she understood him so well she could practically read his mind, which, at the moment, he was distinctly uncomfortable with.

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Clint replied briefly.

Natasha frowned, "No, I guess not."

They just stood there in silence for a moment. Clint was having a very hard time trying to keep her from knowing how her closeness made him feel. The two feet between them felt like such a long distance, though. He could have reached out and touched her, but he brutally forced that impulse back. What was wrong with him?

Then she broke the silence, "Are you alright?"

He blinked, caught off guard by her spontaneous question, "Honestly, I feel like I haven't slept in forever and I don't know how much longer I can make it."

There, now she knew.

Natasha frowned again, "Earlier, you said sleep doesn't help, why?"

Clint felt so weak and exposed in front of her. She was and always had been the only person he had ever met who could do that to him, "I dream about the past two months...every night, and I can't sleep through it."

Her face clouded with worry and something he could not quite place, and that only made him feel worse. That thought aside, he realized how much he enjoyed having her full and undivided attention. That certainly had not been something he had felt in the past.

"So...you can remember? In your dreams?" she inquired.

"I don't know," Clint ran his hand over his face, and when he met her gaze once more, she seemed to understand that he did not want to continue on the current subject.

"Alright," she said.

He simply nodded, not knowing what to say. Then she touched his shoulder, causing an involuntary skip in his heartbeat, and said, "You should try to get some actual sleep. Drugs or something."

There was a moment in which Clint felt as if he had surely misheard her, "Are you seriously recommending I get myself stoned?" his tone was so incredulous that Natasha smiled slightly.

He had forgotten how wonderful her smile was, not having seen it at all since he had been back. He thought he had forgotten to breathe for a few moments and prayed that the awe in his mind was completely undetectable to her.

"Who knows, it might be worth it." she replied.

Clint grinned, "Maybe."

"See you," Natasha said.

"Yeah," he replied, and watched her go with longing eyes, immediately missing her closeness, and then mentally prodding himself with _"Really, what _happened_ to me?"_

His further thoughts on the subject would have to wait, he guessed, because he knew he had better get back to his apartment and perhaps try Natasha's suggestion, after all, he had nothing to lose.

_Natasha._

He just could not bring himself to accept the fact that they could never be more than friends, and this was _definitely_ new. In the past, any time he had felt anything but friendship for her, he had pushed it back with the ease that came from knowing her for such a long time. It should not be any different now, but somehow, it was. This change in feelings was beginning to be a bit creepy.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

He had just managed to recover from the searing pain of the last cut when he felt the cool, sharp metal press down on the soft flesh just below the inside of his right elbow and knew what was coming. He bit down hard on his tongue, but still could not stop the cry that seemed almost inhuman coming from his mouth as the blade sliced into his arm, penetrating at least a half inch, and then proceeding to make the cut longer. The feeling was so intense that he felt as if his soul were trying to escape his body to get away from it. His mind was swimming with thoughts trying to distract him from the new open wound, and with no effort from him, Natasha's face came to the forefront of his mind. Her green eyes were lit with amusement as her lips quirked slightly in a faint smile. For a moment, the pain vanished as he memorized every feature of her beautiful face. Then the image slipped, and he was swallowed by the agony once again. Somehow, he managed to open his eyes, a vague part of him still aware of who he was and of the fact that, if he survived this, he should have some idea of what he was dealing with. A bright light stung his eyes, which had been tightly closed for what seemed like forever, but he forced them to remain open as they slowly became able to make out his surroundings through a haze of moisture, partially from the light, the other part from the pain he could not drown out.

A man with a surgical mask covering the lower portion of his face met his look with narrowed eyes and injected something from a needle into a tube that led to the bag of liquid suspended by Clint's head, and from there to a needle stuck in his left forearm. Once the man had set the needle aside, he returned to the other side of the cot which Clint was strapped to and proceeded to open up the new would with some new device. The pain made Clint's eyes glaze over and his throat was so dry and sore that the scream sounded more like a squeaky door than any sound a human made.

Clint jolted up in bed, drenched in sweat and still feeling the pain in his right arm as if it had just been sliced open. His throat was parched and his mouth felt as if it had been filled with sand. He realized he must have cried aloud in his sleep as his mind finally pulled back from the torture. Perhaps he should have taken Natasha's advice, but after all that had happened to him, he did not feel comfortable about drugging himself. However, he guessed that if he did not get real sleep for much longer, it would be the only option left.

After the Avenger's meeting, he had gone straight home, eaten a sandwich, and nearly passed out on the bed.

He had considered what Natasha had suggested as he drove to the apartment complex, but in the end, he had not been able to talk himself into knocking himself out.

He swiped a hand over his face, wiping off the perspiration that ran down his forehead from his soaked hair. Checking his watch, which he had forgotten to take off before falling asleep, Clint realized he had slept for nearly twelve hours. At the moment, he felt he could go for about twice that, though he knew it would do no good, so he wearily pulled himself from the bed and tossed aside his drenched shirt as he took a new outfit from his drawer, feeling the refreshingly cool air in his apartment bring goosebumps up his skin.

He stood under the cold water for some time, thinking through his dreams, wondering if there was any part of reality to them. Had he really thought of Natasha to ease the pain, or had his mind only added that recently? He pushed back the picture of her that immediately came to his mind, refusing to let it distract him, though he could still see it, as if from the corner of his eye. What part of the face of the man in the surgical mask's face Clint had been able to see was seared only his brain, but what use was it? There was nothing else to be learned from his restless sleep that he did not already know...or was there?

He shut off the water, leaving the apartment completely silent as he delved back to his memories. Somewhere in the haze of agony was something he could almost feel, begging to be found, pleading for his attention...

That was it!

There had been a woman's voice - yes, definitely a woman's, which he thought to be near tears, begging for something he could not understand through the pain. It did not sound like the sort of pleading that would come from physical torture, more like the sort of sound a broken heart would make, his brain decided. He doubted he had heard her voice before, and her words were faint. Try as he might, he could not make them out.

After a few minutes, he gave up and slammed his hand against the wall, feeling defeated. He would tell the rest of the Avengers what little he had finally found out, but he doubted it would matter. They seemed to be expecting that, any day now, it would all come back to him and he would be able to identify every person who had been involved in any way, but that certainly was not happening. Part of the reason for his lapse in memory might be the fact that his brain did not want to bring back the pain, he mused as he got dressed, that would be almost like having it happen all over again.

Pain, he could deal with, but whatever they had been doing to him had been worse than just pain. Clint held his right arm out and examined it, following the scar from his latest dream. It was about two inches long and pale, but nowhere near fading. He must have gotten it early on. What could possibly have been the purpose, he wondered. He could not remember a single moment from the entire two months in which anyone had actually spoken to him, so they could not possibly have been trying to get information from him. He felt as if he would lose his mind if he did not find something solid soon.

He was seriously reconsidering drugs to help him sleep. All of the thinking had worn his brain out completely. It was a short battle in his head, and a few minutes later, he had driven to the nearest pharmacy and purchased what he needed without letting his brain ponder it at all for fear of letting it talk him out again.

When he was back at his apartment, he was surprised by how little he regretted the pills he had swallowed. He was so exhausted that he would almost have been willing to get Thor to knock him out if it would have helped. The effects were immediate, and he barely had time to take off his boots before his mind went mercifully blank, and he offered no protest as his body shut down.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

He must have slept for a very long time, because when Clint was finally awakened from a mostly peaceful sleep, his eyes were blinded by painfully bright light. His stomach turned as he immediately thought of the light from his dreams, but as the effects began to wear off and his eyes adjusted, he realized that it was the noontime sun coming in through the windows he had forgotten to cover. Groaning heavily, he pushed himself out of bed and pulled the curtains shut. He felt much better once he realized that the dreams had only started a short while before he had awakened. The drugs must have put him so far under that they had made him sleep like a rock. He was sorely tempted to go back to sleep, still feeling as if he needed a few more hours, but that could wait for now.

Someone knocked on his door just then, and he opened it with the chain still locked, as he always did, to see Natasha on the other side, as before. She looked as if she had been worrying, but when she saw him, she smiled, causing his heart to skip a beat, and said, "Get some sleep?"

"Yeah," he said, leaning his forehead against the door post and already knowing her next question.

"Did you take my advice," her tone gave the 'told you so' impression she was obviously biting back.

"Yes," he replied.

"And?" she really was trying to rub it in, he guessed.

"It worked well," he said, taking in Natasha's almost smug expression.

They were both silent for a moment, and Clint hoped she did not realize he was probably gazing at her with a strange expression on his face. Then Natasha crossed her arms over her chest and asked, "Well, aren't you going to invite me in, or have I lost that right?"

He smirked, glad there was the door between them at this point because he was fighting back the desperate urge to kiss her. "Of course you have," he responded while unlocking the chain.

As soon as he had opened the door fully, she walked in and took a seat on his couch, motioning for him to join her. He observed that her face had resumed its usual serious look and braced himself for the worst as he took the offered place and clasped his hands in front of his knees, "What's wrong?"

Natasha raised her eyebrows, then answered, "You know, I'm sure we could make Tony understand if you don't want him in your mind. I know you've been worrying about that."

"Mind reading hasn't been invented yet, and what do I have to hide? Nothing Tony could do would be any worse than what I went throughout Loki," he tried to be indifferent, but inside, he wondered if he was wrong.

Deciding that he most certainly did not want to talk about the last part, she gave him a look and asked, "What _do_ you have to hide?"

Clint just shook his head, returning her look, with a mysterious smirk, "Nothing."

"You are lying, Clint Barton," Natasha stated, "But if you really don't trust me, then alright."

He nudge her, "You're so unfair."

"But really, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. No one would force you into what they're asking of you," she said, placing one of her hands over his, which were still clasped together and sending an electric spark through his body.

For a moment, he just looked at their hands, knowing he should not be so affected by it but not being able to block out how much he enjoyed her touch. One of his thumbs subconsciously brushed gently back and forth along her hand as he thought through what he wanted to say. Natasha pretended not to notice the gesture, but Clint could almost feel the surprise radiating from her when he realized what he was doing. He really had no desire to stop, though, and he continued to stroke her hand with his thumb as he turned to her and spoke slowly, "What else can I do? If I'm the only one of us who knows enough about this guy to stop him, and this may be the only way to get the information..."

His voice trailed off, and he hoped Natasha knew what he was trying to say. She squeezed his hands gently in response and whispered, "You're not weak, Clint. Everyone has secrets, and, I'd venture to say, if any one of us was put in your position, we would not be nearly as resolved as you are. You are the strongest person I have ever met, and your choice in this won't change that."

At that moment, Clint felt so elated have had to force himself to keep a straight face. She really had just said all of that. His mind immediately registered something:

_I love you, Natasha Romanoff._

It came without warning, and startled Clint by how certain it was, but there was no way he was going to let her hear it. These thoughts of her were giving him more serious doubts about having someone in his mind. If she found out, he knew their friendship would be awkward, and she was the best friend he had ever had. But he realized the look on his face was probably at least giving her suspicions.

"I...have to," he replied, finally.

Her eyes showed the worry she was trying to hide, "If that's the way you want it," she paused, then said, "Want to go somewhere for dinner? If you knocked yourself out, I doubt you've eaten in a while."

His mind froze completely. Had she just asked him out? No, he was over-reacting in the strange state he was in, they had been friends for enough time that they had gone out to eat together before, but still, "Um, sure," he hated the off note in his voice. Where had that come from? Clint Barton did not talk like that.

Natasha stood and said, "Well, come on, then."

As he rose to his feet, he grabbed the belt with his gun holster and pistol, which was hanging nearby, and strapped it on. When he looked up, he could not help but notice the odd look in Natasha's eyed. She did not question his actions, and he could tell that she at least partially understood his motives. He would have preferred to have his bow with him, but, as they would probably not be gone for long, he thought it might be too cumbersome.

Without another word, they both walked to the door, and, after Clint had unlocked the door, they left the apartment.

"Where do you want to go?" Natasha asked, glancing over at Clint as they reached his car. He opened the door for her and stepped back, earning a curious look from his friend.

"Doesn't matter to me," he said, then got into the driver's seat and turned to her, "Where to?"

They ended up at an Italian restaurant after a rather short discussion, but Clint was finding it nearly impossible to focus with Natasha sitting across from him, occasionally looking up and meeting his dark eyes, which were more often than not fixed on her. It did not matter that he was even more paranoid now about her knowing of his new feelings, he could not have done anything about it. Either way, Natasha was acting normal, so he guessed she would attribute any strangeness in his behavior to either lack of sleep or something else to do with the past two months.

Then he remembered something, "There was someone else there," he murmured, sounding as if his mind had drifted back in time.

Natasha looked up, "Excuse me?"

"In the warehouse, or wherever. There was someone else - a woman, I think, but I couldn't make out what she was saying," he clarified.

Natasha's face had taken on a contemplative expression, but he could see the almost horror in her eyes, "They had more victims?"

Clint bit his lip in thought for a moment, then responded slowly, "I don't remember much, but I don't think so. She sounded too...sane."

"But you couldn't see her?" Natasha pressed.

Clint winced as he said, "I could barely focus on anything."

Natasha touched his right forearm, which was resting on the table in front of him and her expression was apologetic as she said, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, no need for you to be sorry," he said, taking in her soft green eyes as they met his. They rarely looked so vulnerable, so expressive, but right now, there was so much emotion he could not help but wonder if she just might feel about him the way he did about her. He did not let this idea stay more than a split second, though, realizing that if he could read her eyes, she could probably do the same to his. Her soft hand on his skin did nothing to make keeping his emotions invisible any easier, however.

She nodded almost imperceptibly, and then they both went silent again. It was more of an understanding silence than it was an awkward silence. Clint's left hand vaguely covered Natasha's, which was still on his arm, but neither of them really seemed to notice it. There had always been silent times like this between the two of them in the years they had known each other, times when silence spoke a thousand words, and neither of them minded it.

After a few minutes, however, Natasha checked her watch and announced that she had a meeting and had to go. Even as he released her other hand, Clint felt the rising urge to say something, to _do something_ just to show her how much he cared about her, but he pushed it down, instead giving a simple, "Good luck."

Natasha beamed at him for the first time in so long he had forgotten what that expression looked like on her. He let himself just take in that moment, trying to imprint in his brain the way her eyes lit up, and her perfect lips formed the most amazing smile he had ever seen. His heart was racing twice its normal speed. As strange as these new feelings were to him, he could not deny that, despite the fact that they were obviously hopeless, they did feel...really good.

Then she waved and left, a completely smitten Clint Barton just gazing after her with an expression of the utmost longing on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Two days passed with nothing out of the ordinary. He did not even get to see Natasha during that time, but he guessed she was probably out being much more useful than he was. He had not heard from Tony since the Avengers meeting, and was beginning to wonder what was up. Tony was hard to stop when he was determined, and Clint had thought him to be pretty resolved on his latest plan, so what could be taking so long?

Then, on the third day, as he was practicing his archery in the spare bedroom, he heard his cell phone ring and stopped suddenly. All of the Avengers, after Clint had returned, had cell phones that they only called in case of an emergency, but until now, they had never been needed. Placing his bow on a hook set in the wall, Clint picked up the phone and answered it, admittedly worried by the dozens of theories immediately rushing to his mind. Despite his dread for all of the possibilities, his voice came out completely normal, "Clint Barton."

"Clint, get to Stark Tower...now," It was Tony's demanding voice on the other end, and Clint could tell something had him on end.

"Okay," he replied, not knowing what to make of Tony's reply. It was so vague that it did not ease his mind one bit. As soon as the word left Clint's mouth, the phone went dead and he absentmindedly held it, trying to make anything of the situation. Surely, if he was going to Stark Tower, Tony had finally done what he had set out to do. But the almost urgency in Tony's voice reminded Clint that he should probably hurry.

He left the apartment and got in his car, anxious over what might be waiting ahead of him as he drove to the massive structure, which had been rebuilt since the battle.

As he got out, he looked around and saw no one else. He approached the door, but still it seemed he was the only person there. Why would none of the others be here?

He pulled open the door and walked in. The entire place was silent. He looked around, then felt someone grab him and stick a needle in his arm, and the next thing he knew everything went black.

There was a bright light over his head, that much he could tell by how red his eyelids were, and for a moment, he puzzled over this fact. He never slept with a light on, and he distinctly remembered closing his curtains, so how could there possibly be so much light?

About six million questions stirred in his mind as he tried to piece together a string of thoughts that made any sense in the strange state of mind he seemed to be in at the moment. He forced himself to open his eyes and was immediately blinded quite literally by a pure white light about five feet directly over his face...and then it all rushed back to him in one giant wave. Someone had captured him at Stark Tower and knocked him out, how could he possibly have been so stupid as to let that happen...again? How had they gotten inside? Where were the others? Surely taking him right from under Tony's thumb was the most idiotic thing for anyone to do. They had to know that a place like Stark Tower was under constant surveillance from every angle.

He turned away from the light, but his vision was basically dark fuzzy purple and he could not make out anything around him. What was he supposed to do now?

Then, gradually, his senses began to turn back on and he could vaguely hear someone say, "Welcome back to the land of the living."

Confusion swallowed Clint, his captors were certainly acting differently than before. He turned towards the voice, but his eyes had only recovered slightly and he could not see any details about the person.

Then the voice clicked in his mind, "Tony?"

The light went off with a click and, as Clint's eyes continued to adjust to the normal lighting, he became aware of vague pain from various limbs, "What happened?"

"You had about twenty sensors and chips inside you, we had to knock you out to turn them off long enough to get them out without them noting that anything was up," Tony was messing with various screens as he spoke, and, his eyes now fully recovered, Clint could see a row of metal chips on the steel table beside where Tony sat. He could still faintly feel the effects of whatever Tony had used on him, and this sudden rush of information was taking a significantly longer time than usual to process.

"All of those were in me?" but he was not asking the question because he did not know, his memories were perfectly intact, and he remembered what had happened back at the warehouse. He really did not know why he was asking, actually. Perhaps because he felt he needed to say something, or perhaps he was still trying to figure out exactly what was going on. Neither of those made any sense, it was not like him to ask questions while thinking hard as he was or for any reason such as breaking the silence. He just was not like that. No, he knew exactly how they had gotten in him.

He _remembered..._

Clint shot up in bed and immediately regretted it for the stab of pain from generally every part of his body. Of course, Tony must have had to remove the chips in basically the same way as they had been put in. No, he had asked to question because he wanted to know _why._

"One in your brain, blocking some memories. What can you tell us now?" Tony was blunt and to the point, as usual, and Clint was fine with that, but right now, he just needed time to adjust to the two months worth of new memories now residing in his brain. They did not feel out of place now that they were actually there, as if he had grown accustomed to having them, as if they had never been missing. But he knew there was something...maybe just one small detail...that would really give him something to go on. Among all of the things he now knew, there was one thing there just looking him right in the eyes, as if knowing he saw it, and begging him not to notice.

_Begging..._

_"Please! He doesn't have any of the information you want, he can't give you anything!"_

_"And you do. So tell us."_

_There was silence once more, then he felt the blade on his wrist slice through his flesh to the nerve, stopping just before doing any permanent damage. He could not hold back the scream that accompanied pain so strong it caused his vision to go black._

_Before he completely slipped into unconsciousness, he heard the woman crying, and was thrown out of the memory and back to the lab in Stark Tower with such force, it took several seconds for him to adjust._

He was breathing heavily, and felt more than saw Tony waiting expectantly.

But once Clint finally met Tony's eyes, he just could not tell what he now knew. He shook his head, and Tony seemed to understand as he turned back to the screen in front of him.

For several minutes, Clint tried to make his memories form different conclusions, but in the end, he knew there was no way around it.

The woman had been Natasha.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Clint could only sit there on the edge of the cot while Tony monitored his brain and heart and tested the chips. There was no more conversation between them, but Clint did not mind - he barely noticed at all; what was there ti say? He knew nothing but that Natasha had been there, and that did not really mean anything but that she knew more than she had said, did it? He ought at least to give her a chance to explain it herself. He trusted her, and she trusted him...well, perhaps less than he had thought. Surely there was some explanation. She had sounded as if she were trying to protect someone - possibly him - and that must mean something.

Some time passed - he was not keeping track - before Tony finally said he could go. Clint stood and was about to leave, but suddenly felt the urge to ask, "Did you find anything?"

"I've saved samples of your brain activity to compare to the data on the chips, I should know something real tomorrow," Tony replied, spinning his chair around to face Clint, "You should be able to remember everything now, any useful information?"

Clint paused, then said, "I haven't remembered anything...unusual despite the entire situation. But it's like I've gotten used to having the information so none of it really stands out."

His elbows propped on the arms of his chair, Tony clasped his fingers and rested his chin on them. His look was - not obviously - piercing, but Clint had become very adept at reading faces. Tony seemed to be trying to figure something out, but Clint could not guess what.

Finally, Tony said, "That would be one effect of the chip." Then he spun back to his work and Clint took that as a dismissal.

He had reached his car before he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts to Natasha Romanoff. Clint stared at the screen with her name, number, and picture for a few minutes. What was he supposed to say when she answered, because "Hey, why were you there when they were cutting me up?" sure as heck was not going to cut it. Maybe he just was not ready to talk to her yet, but he wanted to know what had happened and why she had been there. His thumb was frozen over the 'call' button, but he could not bring himself to press it.

He sighed and turned the phone off, shoving it into the pocket of his pants and cranking the car. As he drove back to his apartment, he mentally berated himself for being afraid to talk to Natasha, of all people, but he was not feeling at all himself now...or what had been 'himself' since he had been back. Come to think of it, his emotions did not seem so strong as they had over the past two and a half weeks; maybe that had been an effect of the chips, he mused.

Once he had locked his apartment door behind him, Clint had made up his mind. He pulled his phone back out and once again scrolled to Natasha's number. He paused to look at her picture for a moment, and reconsidered one of his deductions. Even without the chips, he still felt so much more overwhelmed by her than he had before all of this. If he had thought that a bad thing before, it was even worse now. One slip in his words and he could push her away forever.

_Where the heck did that come from?_ He mentally chided himself, _She is about as far away as she could possibly be now, you're basically friend-zoned._

Before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed the call button and waited for her to pick up.

He heard her phone ring twice, and immediately worried: Natasha always answered after the first ring. But she finally picked up after the fourth ring and Clint let out the breath he had not realized he was holding.

"Natasha Romanoff."

"Tasha, I need to talk to you," he managed to sound normal.

"What, now?" he could read mild confusion and worry in her voice. One part of him vaguely hoped he had not called at an inconvenient time.

"Yeah, can you come over?" he winced at how...close that sounded.

"Sure," then she hung up and he knew he had ten minutes or less before she would knock on his door. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to start a conversation normally and bring it to the subject he needed it on?

He began to pace, and all too soon, he heard three knocks. Bracing himself, Clint walked to the door and unlocked it after sliding the chain back. When he opened it, there stood a soaked Natasha Romanoff in a rather formal black dress, he red hair dripping and clinging around her face. He took a moment to register that before asking, "What happened?"

"It's raining outside, didn't you notice?" she did not even wait for him to invite her in, and he closed the door behind her, "You sounded pretty urgent on the phone."

"Did I?" he asked, then noticed her rubbing her arms, "Cold?"

"Yeah," she said, "What's wrong?"

He picked up his jacket that was draped over a chair and put it on her shoulders, leaving his hands there for a moment more than necessary, briefly losing what he had actually wanted to talk to her about. They sat on the couch and he still did not know what to say to her last question. She just pulled his jacket closer around her and watched him expectantly.

"Natasha, I..." that sentence trailed off, and Clint turned to her, "Tony took several chips out of me today."

Her face instantly filled with concern, "Are you alright?"

He met her eyes and bit his lip, "I...remember now...all of it."

Natasha's face drained of all color and her voice quivered as she pressed, "Why...are you telling me?"

"You were there," he replied, his voice low, "Why?"

She refused to meet his eyes now, and he decided to give her as long as she needed. Trying to hide how tense he was, Clint clasped his hands in front of him and looked at them to avoid staring at Natasha. He could see in his peripheral vision that she stole glances at him every few seconds, but she did not yet seem ready to talk.

A few minutes passed this way, and finally, Natasha broke the silence, "You haven't told anyone else yet, why?"

"I trust you, Natasha," he admitted, meeting her questioning gaze, "But I need to know. You know that."

She nodded, looking away momentarily, and when her eyes locked with his again, he could see something like panic in them, "I've done a lot that I regret...you know _that_. Sometimes it's harder to get away from than other times, and sometimes...I can't get away from it at all."

Clint nodded, and asked, sounding more threatening than he had intended, "What did they do to you?"

This time, she refused to look at him, her eyes fixed on her feet. There was another long pause, and then she murmured, "They did nothing to me, they knew that wouldn't work...and, I could have gotten out with no trouble at all. They knew that, too," she bit her lip for a long moment, then glanced at him briefly to gage his response before re-focusing on the floor and whispered, "They couldn't get anything out of me no matter what they did, and they couldn't keep me trapped...so they took you."


End file.
